


Never Again (At Least I Tried)

by Ozymanreis



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [44]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5 + 1, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Are You Challenging Me?, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, POV First Person, Romance, The Great Game and on, The game is on, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2198223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time it happens, it's out of curiosity. </p>
<p>Alternatively: "The Five Times Jim and Sherlock Fuck, and the One Time They Have Sex"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Again (At Least I Tried)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #74: Are You Challenging Me?

The first time it happens, it's out of curiosity. 

Or at least, that's what I tell myself.  

Initially, I'm unsure of what to make of that smirk on his face, even though I'd seen it many times. But when it's worn on others, I'm repulsed. Disgusted that some would think of me that way, seeing only a shadow of who I really am. Wanting only _parts_ of me. No matter the circumstance, I'm an object to these people. These _ordinary_ people. 

Somehow, Sherlock manages to sell it to me. Could have had something to do with the fact that he wore this look of desire while pointing a gun at my face. It seemed we both shared a danger kink. But it's more than that, "No one ever gets to me…" I grin, "And no one ever will." Despite myself, I seem almost… resentful, sad at that statement. That was unexpected — body must've been betraying me again. 

"I did." Sherlock points out, renewed confidence in his posture; he seems to have zeroed in on my moment of weakness. The statement is almost comforting. Well, it would be, if it weren't _him_ , my sworn nemesis, saying it. As he stands there defiantly, I tell him the real secret, "You've come the closest." He might not get my full meaning, but it's true; he's the closest I've ever let anyone come, "let" being a strong word — he practically forced it, "Now you're in my _way_."

But I like that. I spent my entire life building walls. Fortresses. I'd spent almost the same amount of time killing whatever lived beyond them. I wear whatever emotions I do feel on my sleeve, amplifying them and broadcasting them to the world so no one would take them seriously. They think what's real is an act, and are convinced the act is real. But not Sherlock.

No, Sherlock picks up on my act. Even perpetuates it to the world, letting his brother believe I'm every inch the criminal warlord my reputation suggests. But the detective knows differently. So when I invite him into my car, back to my flat, he just grins. I want to slap that smug grin off his face, but I can't help but love it. It's a grin that lets me know _exactly_ how much he trusts me.

He shouldn't trust me, but he does. It's a similar trust that I have in him, that we won't ever rat each other out. I gave him Carl Powers' shoes, evidence of my treachery, and he kept them out of sentiment. He does morally gray or even _wrong_ things just to play my games, and I let everyone think it's out of "quirks" in his character. 

But I know differently. He's dark as I am, maybe philosophically even _worse_ , because he has no reason to be how he is. Not like I do. He doesn't get paid — I do. He grew up in the lap of luxury. With parents. Absent ones, but a brother who loved him and cared for him no less. I had _none_ of that, but somehow, he and I were kindred souls from the start. 

We get to my flat. We don't speak. We don't need to. Often, words between us are superfluous — there only because we've hidden the answers so far in ourselves that we cannot use our powers of deduction to glean them off one another. Or for the benefit of anyone listening, if they matter at all. What we have isn't exactly telepathy, but it's probably the closest anyone's ever gotten. 

Our lips meet in the darkness. We leave a trail of clothing as our hands wander, bodies automatically inching toward the bedroom. 

It was amazing. It was perfect. It was everything I'd ever been told sex should've been and more. While most poets and teens will regale you with stories of how amazing the physical rewards were, this was so much more than that. A true meeting of the minds, pleasure stretching out to hit every aspect of attraction.

It was profoundly satisfying. And it can never happen again.

 

* * *

 

The second time is savage and undignified. 

Now that he knew where it was, he just walked into my flat. It's about a month later, unannounced, a look on his face as if he were expecting something. If he were _anyone_ _else_ , I'd have him shot in the leg for his hubris. Arrogant bastard, but… I love it. I don't let it show, but I want to smile. I'd been replaying our last visit in my head a thousand times over, perhaps in the same day. It's a pity, because I wanted to savor it. Preserve the memory, saving it for a danger night, so that even I couldn't trod all over it with my _feelings_.

But it hadn't lost any of its luster. Its appeal stayed fresh in my mind, never once seeming mundane or without artful brush strokes. We hadn't talked about it, nor sought a repeat performance. There was no need to. Or so I'd thought.  

When I check back into the present day, he's leaning in for a kiss. But I'm far beyond that, worried that he was already attached. No, I couldn't have that. 

Immediately, instinctively, I push him back (both physically and mentally), fingers fumbling with his belt. He whines in protest, and I know what he's thinking. It's too fast. He wants to kiss, he wants to touch. I do too, but that doesn't change my behavior. The moment his pants are pulled around his knees, the rest of his clothes still on, I flip him around and push him against the arm of the sofa.

It's quick. It's dirty. I feel like I'm using him, and I bet he feels that way too. That's how it has to be.Anything else, and I'm afraid I'll make a mistake. This is all it can be.

 

* * *

 

The third time it happens, _he_ initiates it. And, no matter how I resist, he _controls_ it as well. 

I had been perfectly content to leave things as they were, even if I had been left wanting. But I had spent so much of my life just "wanting" — and usually not "getting" — that'd I'd become rather good at staving off impulse. But when he texts me:

 

**John is out.** **-SH**

 

I can't help but crack a smile. I tell myself it's because I've corrupted him, ruined him into needing me. And perhaps some of that is true. But I'm most _definitely_ lying when I tell myself I only say "yes" because I want to lure him away from the side of the angels. 

 

**Ten minutes. -JM**

 

At the immediacy of my reply, and the fact I was canceling on a rather profitable client meeting, I realize I've entered myself into a deadly game. One I'm not sure if I'll win. See… it was no longer about _my_ lust. It was about _ours_. Mutually. It was an equal playing field in a world I had long since always held an advantage. 

Getting out of the car in front of 221B, I note that it's the first time I've ever been _inside_ his flat. Cameras, spies, double-agents… they all failed to report how much chaos the man lived in. Knick-knacks _everywhere_ , bits of paper pinned to board, headphones on a wall mounted animal… and again, like everything else about him, it's _fascinating_. 

But I have little time to sight-see. I stand in the middle of the living room only moments before Sherlock walks out of his bedroom sheepishly, a look of… confusion on his face. As if he's trying to reconcile the idea that "me" and his "normal life" were meshed. I wondered if it looked odd or displaced in his eyes. It was probably for the best if it did, but I couldn't help feeling a stab of regret — I'd so love it if I even had the _chance_ of being in his world. 

_His_ world, not our joint one, consisting of only us and our distractions. I couldn't imagine what it was like, and before I got too heavily into that train of thought, I was upon him, trying to be as rough and callous as I was previously. 

But he stops me, this time having _his_ way. Slow, burning, passionate. I can't help but get trapped in my head, torn between my undying, endless thoughts of confusion and _this_ moment. This perfect, shining moment that I think someone _might_ care about me.  

For once.

After we've exhausted ourselves, I'm too tired to get up and leave like I know I should. Curled against him, I fall asleep. Somewhere in my dreams, I realize this was the _second_ mistake I've made. The first was starting this dangerous game at all. 

Again, I promise myself it's the last time.

 

* * *

 

The fourth time is an accident.

It's right after my imprisonment; I spent weeks being tortured and interrogated by his brother in a cold, dark, steel room. But I didn't say much, as I was curious as to how much the Ice Man knew. About me. About Sherlock. About _us_. 

Turns out, not much. However, he _suspected_ what was going on. Strongly. Asked me about it a few times in his own clandestine way. My answer was just staring into the darkness as he struck me again and again. What kept me going was the other three memories. Every second, every moan, every sigh of pleasure… I wasn't in the cell, I was taking comfort in Sherlock's body.

I tried not to put too much significance in that, justifying it by saying it was an extreme situation.  

Needless to say, he told Sherlock when I was released. The dear detective came over, and I took it as some form of "concern." That his favorite toy (and by now, I had accepted this) might be damaged. He examines my bruises and the shallow-now-healing cuts, but I hadn't recovered in the slightest bit, mentally or physically. 

Regardless of my condition, he kisses me. I allow it, though I consider asking him to be gentle. But I don't have to; lips gliding around to graze each of my lacerations, he already is. His weight on me is soft, taking my tender body into account. I know he cares. Or at least I'm so far gone, drowning in his affections, I have to believe it. I had every intention of keeping this encounter chaste, but his affections made a compelling argument. 

As we continue, it feels like he's breaking me, somewhere deep inside. Nothing his brother, nor all the Queen's horses did had ever hurt like _this_.

It was all probably still just a game to him, even if I'd tipped my king long ago. I'm so caught up in my thoughts, I hardly notice myself speak in the dead of the night, "Why are you doing this, Sherlock?" 

He chuckles a bit as he threads a hand through my hair, "Where would the fun be if I gave you all the answers?"

My face burns. I feel foolish, and just a tad exhilarated. I shouldn't have expected any different; it is a game, but one I must figure out for myself, if I haven't already. I'm so used to the easy answers that I had forgotten who I was dealing with. 

Instinctively, I kiss his chest, burying my face and letting his sweet scent lull me to sleep, swatting away the reality: this "crush" of mine was much worse, and far more dangerous than my initial assessment had lead me to believe. 

 

* * *

 

The fifth time, I give up.  

Whatever this game is that he's been playing at, he's won, because I've fallen. Fallen for him, fallen for whatever he wants, fallen in _love_. 

I take him to my flat — the 'real' one, if there was such a place — a cozy little deal in Sussex. Where my family lived when I killed Powers. If he deduces the significance, he's quiet about it.  

We touch. We kiss. We smear our bodies together until neither of us is entirely sure that we're separate entities anymore. I give myself completely over to him, placing my trust in another human being for the first time in my entire adult life. He doesn't disappoint, looking at me with adoring eyes. Like he _isn't_ thinking of a million other things at this moment. Just this. Just me. At some point, we stop to catch our breath. 

"You win, Sherlock." I whisper, cheek in the plush, down pillow, "I concede. I'm yours."

There's a beat and my heart rate skyrockets. An awkward silence if I'd ever felt one. His face is… intense. As if he's trying to process the first bit of information that has ever failed to immediately make sense to him. As if he's convinced I hadn't just said something so… _blasphemous._

I both want to slap him and ravage him when he giggles. He's won, but more importantly, I've _lost_. He should be allowed to rub it in, even if it makes me feel awful; I was right, as I usually am, in that he was just playing. In a karmic sense, it's what I deserved — spending my whole life playing people, it seemed only "right" that someone finally played me. It was a sting to my heart I could feel good about. 

"Thank _god_." He smirks. _What?_ "I was beginning to think I'd never get to you." He pulls me into his embrace, offering little else in the way of an explanation. But I understand. It seemed my first instinct was right, in that he had gotten attached. Yet, he was still playing a game. Playing with fire, _my_ fire. He wanted _me_ , honestly and truly. 

The link between us was so strong, so unmistakably forged out of understanding, that Sherlock _knew_ I couldn't accept his feelings at first. That I'd think it all a game, a puzzle, a ruse to catch me off-guard. All the while, everything I perceived to be _forced_ was _true_. Unwavering in his devotion, he toyed with me in the best way: for my own good. 

"No one ever gets to me…" I whisper in remembrance of our first meeting. But someone has, someone worthy. Someone I wanted and trusted. It's a beautiful, awful feeling. 

And it can never happen again. I'd lost the game, and now it was time for me to end it.

 

* * *

 

**+1**

 

The next day, I kill myself. Or so he thinks.

I watch on as he watches the good doctor mourning over his loss. Little does Sherlock know, I am performing a similar task from a black Sedan parked conveniently near his grave. He's upset, I know, I can see it in his far-off expression and slightly lowered posture. But something keeps me from reaching out.

Sighing, I close my eyes and lean my scalp back against the headrest, the dried fake blood still crusted over the back of my hair. It made me feel unclean, but I wore it as a reminder of my weakness. Of my personal failure to keep Sherlock out of my heavily guarded heart. 

But then the car door opens, and someone slides in. No. Oh no. No, no, no. Regardless of my internal chanting, he's still there. I can smell the faint whiff of graveyard soil and flowers, "Guess I shouldn't have made myself so obvious…" I give a single dry laugh. 

"Jim." He says, voice dangerously low as he grabs my jaw, forcing me to look at him, "If you wanted to break-up, you could've just said so." 

Defiantly, I scowl, "We weren't _together_ , there was nothing to 'break-up.'" I huff. I'm probably lying, just a little bit, but nothing was ever official, "And even if I _were_ breaking up with you, I would've made sure you died, rather than let you slip away on some strange, almost clairvoyant, ridiculous plan." It was ridiculous, but that didn't mean I couldn't applaud his ingenuity. No, what I _couldn't_ do was tell him I thought so. 

"You would've let me go regardless." He says. Bloody cocky bastard. No matter how right he is, he's just too… _secure_ in it. What _ever_ happened to the terrifying, mysterious Moriarty, that would kill him for anything? Well, turns out, he had the answer to that too, "You love me… don't you know?" He asks in mock disbelief. I want to punch him. I also want to kiss him. 

I settle on neither, grimacing at his mockery, "Clever you." I mutter, "What do you want to do about it?" I ask, heart in my throat. Here I am, setting myself up for the rejection I'd hoped to avoid by faking my death.

In response, he crawls in my lap, wrapping his arms around my neck, "Let's run off together. Everyone thinks we're dead anyway." This wasn't an answer I'd been anticipating, but one that immediately lifts my mood, a shot of sunshine directly into my heart. I'm acutely conscious of it beating into my sternum as he leans forward for a very soft, tender kiss. 

The first time it happens as a couple, we're in Norway, both of us in tears. 

"You love me too, you know." 

"I never denied it."

 


End file.
